


birthday songs

by towine (snippetcee)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, M/M, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snippetcee/pseuds/towine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Jean's birthdays, in reverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	birthday songs

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday jean, ya loser. also, special dedication to [por](http://dates-at-the-zoo.tumblr.com/), ily and happy early birthday!
> 
> thanks for reading!

He isn’t the type for big celebrations and parties, maybe because it’s not something he’s used to, in the Survey Corps, or because he never thought his birthday as something momentous enough to warrant much fuss and trouble. Jean can honestly say that he doesn’t ask for much, and so this, he thinks, is fine. Perfect, even:  
  
Armin next to him, his pant legs rolled up and gold hair whipping in the sea-salt breeze. His eyes shine with a wonder the ocean always pulls out of him; they’ve been camped out at this shore for weeks and it’s still the same.  
  
The sand is cold, thick, Jean’s toes sinking into it as the tide washes in then out, tugging at his legs and gently urging him forward. He doesn’t dive in, not yet—the entire ocean is waiting for him, but he has time. They have everything and time, now.  
  
Armin splashes him with ocean water and it’s _freezing_ , damn it, and Jean curses and chases him down the shore. Armin laughs, free and easy, until Jean catches up to him and they fall together into the water in an ungainly tangle of limbs.  
  
“C-Cold!” Armin gasps, his hair turned dark and damp and sticking to his neck.  
  
“You prick,” Jean breathes, pressing their foreheads together, pressing their grinning mouths together. There isn’t an ounce of guilt on Armin’s face.  
  
“Happy birthday,” he says, and Jean thanks him with another kiss.  
  
  
-  
  
  
It looks different on him. Foreign. Strange. He’s seen the tie a hundred times around Erwin’s neck, but it looks out of place on his—like a boy trying on his father’s uniform, too large and ill-fitting.  
  
“Commander,” he hears, along with light knocking against his office door. Jean stiffens at the word, still unused to the sound of it meaning _him_.  
  
He turns and Armin is there, walking over to him. He smiles comfortingly as he says, “I think the meeting went well.”  
  
“About as boring as I expected,” Jean sighs, sinking into his desk chair. Armin lets out an amused breath, his hands idly reaching out to straighten Jean’s tie. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my birthday.”  
  
“Ah,” Armin hums sympathetically. They hadn’t bothered to turn the light on, the office cast in darkness save the city lights filtering through the window, lighting Armin’s face in a blurred line of gold. “Shall we go home then?”  
  
 _Home_. The word loosens something in Jean’s chest. “Please,” he says, finally letting himself sound tired, finally letting himself be open. He always is, around Armin.  
  
“As you wish, Jean.” Not _Commander_ , and the sound of his own name sends a pleased shiver down Jean’s spine.  
  
  
-  
  
  
“I’m not letting you die on me, asshole, Armin’ll kill me.” Eren’s body is hissing steam, and the striations beneath his eyes tell Jean he’d just burst out of his Titan form. Jean blinks blearily at him through the echo-y ringing in his head, and there’s blood dribbling down his face, he thinks, but he can’t really remember why.  
  
“Where’re we?” he slurs out, “W’happened?”  
  
It’s dark, and Jean can feel the wind whipping past them, the rustle of leaves. He realizes they’re flying, that Eren is zipping through a forest on his 3DMG and carrying him like some kind of goddamn princess. Jean’s thoughts become coherent enough for him to think, _You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me._  
  
“Got separated from the group,” Eren tells him, “Titans ambushed us outta nowhere, broke the formation. One ran towards Armin and you rode in front of it like some—some idiotic hero.”  
  
Jean’s eyes widen, suddenly alert. “Is he okay? Armin, did he make it alright?”  
  
“He was fine, last I saw.” Eren flicks his gaze over to Jean, then away, then back at him. His jaw clenches like he’s struggling to say something.  
  
He finally manages, “Thanks.”  
  
Open gratitude isn’t something common between them—their days of fighting have long been over, and Jean can say easily and readily that they’re friends, now—but he finds that, with Eren, words don’t often need to be said. It counts when he says things so plainly like this.  
  
Jean weakly shrugs a shoulder. “Well, for saving me after my little stunt of bravery, I’d say we’re even now.” Eren grins, just a little.  
  
When he finally deems it safe enough, Eren lands on the high branch of a tree, setting Jean down to lean against the trunk before pulling a flare gun from his belt and firing straight into the sky.  
  
It doesn’t take long for a rescue squad to find them. What they don’t expect is Armin to be there too, the worried expression on his face slipping away when he sees Jean, alive and whole.  
  
“Jean,” Armin breathes, his blue eyes wet with relief. “You—you scared the hell out of me, you _jerk_.” He wraps his arms around Jean’s neck and embraces him tightly.  
  
“Eren got me out alright, didn’t he?” Jean says with a lopsided grin.  
  
He raises his fist up to Eren, and Eren rolls his eyes before lightly bumping their knuckles together. “Only ’cause it’s your birthday, dick.”  
  
  
-  
  
  
He doesn’t expect it at all, not only because he’d told almost no one about his birthday, but also because he didn’t think anyone would really give a shit if they knew.  
  
So when he walks into the mess hall for dinner that night, freshly showered after training, Jean jumps in surprise when he’s bombarded with a sudden chorus of, “Happy birthday!”  
  
Something is dumped over his head, soaking his hair, his shirt. Jean cries, “Agh! I just showered, you assholes!”  
  
Connie laughs, an empty mug clutched in his hands. “Drink up, birthday boy! Do you have any idea how much sneaking we had to do to get this stuff?”  
  
“What?” Jean sniffs his shirt, and the heady smell of alcohol fills his nose. “Is—is this booze?”  
  
“Yep!” Sasha chirps, thrusting a brimming mug into his hands. “So enjoy it while you can!”  
  
Jean’s thoughts are still catching up to him, and he looks around in confusion at his fellow cadets, bumping glasses and laughing and calling, “Happy birthday!” in his direction.  
  
“How did you even know it was my birthday?” he asks.  
  
“Ah, well.” Marco appears at his side, looking sheepish. And Jean _knows_. “I may have told Connie, and what I didn’t know was that when you’ve told Connie, you’ve pretty much told everyone.”  
  
Connie shrugs, guiltless. “Hey, any excuse for a party, man.”  
  
“We have training tomorrow,” Jean tells him.  
  
“Which is why you should celebrate while you can.” Marco gives him an encouraging smile.  
  
“Live a little!” Sasha says.  
  
Jean looks down at his mug, at the amber liquid sloshing inside it. And he decides why not, really, because they’re right—Shadis is gonna kick their ass tomorrow anyway, why not have some fun in the meantime?  
  
Jean grins, bumps his mug against Connie’s in a toast. “Thanks, man.”  
  
“Shut up and drink already,” Connie says, and Jean does.  
  
Jean spends the rest of the night feeling warm, down to his core. He laughs more easily than he has in months, and doesn’t stutter embarrassedly when Mikasa wishes him a happy birthday. Even Eren gives him a stiff nod when he passes by, and Armin rests a hand on Jean’s arm when he tells him, quietly and sincerely, “Happy birthday.” (And Jean chooses not to think about the way his stomach flips and his cheeks heat up for reasons besides the alcohol.)  
  
Jean feels… at home, for the first time in a long time. Miles away from his home in Trost, Jean laughs hard at something Connie says and bats Sasha’s wandering hands away from his plate, and remembers what it feels like to be surrounded by family again.  
  
  
-  
  
  
On his twelfth birthday, Jean asks his mother to shave his head.  
  
“ _What_?” she screeches, nearly dropping a plate as she washes dishes in the kitchen.  
  
“I’m joining the military, Ma, I might as well do it now.” Jean looks at her determinedly.  
  
His mother dries her hands on her apron as she turns to him, sighing. “You don’t go to training camp for another couple months, don’t you?” she says.  
  
“Well, yeah, but…” Jean shrugs. “I’m twelve now, I should just… do it. Get used to it before going, or something.”  
  
His mother smiles and rests a hand on his head, ruffling his hair in the exact way that Jean hates.  
  
“Don’t you like your hair?” she asks. “I won’t be able to do this if you shave it!”  
  
“Aw, Ma!” Jean complains, swatting her hands away. His mother laughs, then turns quiet and just a tad melancholy, which Jean hates more than the hair ruffling, more than anything.  
  
“Grew up so fast,” she says quietly to herself.  
  
Jean shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Ma…”  
  
His mother smiles and claps him on the shoulders before walking out of the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “Well, let’s get it done, then!”  
  
She returns with a pair of scissors and a shaving blade, and drags a stool to the middle of the room. She doesn’t look at Jean, instead busying herself with making sure the blade is clean and sharp. “Take a seat, then,” she says.  
  
Jean hesitates, looking at her. He thinks about a lot of things, in that moment. About the military, about leaving home, leaving his mother behind. And he had said he hates having his hair ruffled, yeah, but he also said there is something he hates more.  
  
Jean sighs. “Maybe… we don’t have to shave all of it. Maybe just the back, instead.”  
  
His mother pauses, then turns to look at him. “Really?” she asks.  
  
“Yeah.” Jean sits on the stool.  
  
She smiles, relieved, happy, and this, Jean thinks, is how he’d prefer to have his mother on his birthday.  
  
“Don’t you think it’ll be a little weird having just the back shaved?” she asks.  
  
“Nah, it’ll be cool. Different.”  
  
His mother laughs and ruffles the hair on his head, and Jean doesn’t complain this time.  
  
  
-  
  
  
The night of his fifth birthday, Jean lies beneath the thick blankets of his bed, feeling warm and full from his birthday dinner. He thinks about going to the market earlier that day, about seeing the soldiers patrol down the streets, a rose insignia stitched on their backs. He remembers the maneuver gear hanging heavy at their sides, and he’s seen them use it, once—running across rooftops and cutting through the air like birds.  
  
Sometimes he takes the little wooden soldiers from his toy chest and stands them at attention, just like the soldiers he saw in the street, just like the soldiers he sees guarding the top of, what feels to him, an endless wall of grey. Sometimes Jean looks at his toy soldiers facing him and feels a little like their leader, and he wonders what it’s like to go beyond the Wall, to lead a band of soldiers towards something better, something _out there_.  
  
 _Must be nice to fly_ , he thinks sleepily, _gosh, wouldn’t it be nice_.  
  
That night, he dreams of blue and white feathers, of clear skies, of flight.


End file.
